Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora

“What do you mean, señor?” demanded Cuchillo, evidently confounded by the reproach.

“I fear, my friend, that in the only good action you have ever done, you have made a bad hand of it.”

“Good action!” repeated Cuchillo, embarrassed to know at what epoch of his life he had done such a thing.

“Yes – in saving this young man’s life.”

“But it was you who did that good action: as for me, it was only a lucrative one.”

“Be it so. I will lend it to you, notwithstanding the proverb which says we should only lend to the rich. But now hear what I have ascertained – I, who do not boast either of my scruples of conscience or of my perspicacity. This young man has in his pocket, at this moment, a written direction of the route to the Golden Valley; moreover, he is passionately in love with Doña Rosarita, for whom he would give all the gold in this valley, or all the gold in the world, and all the horses in Sonora, if he had them. Moreover, his object in coming to the Hacienda del Venado, was to make himself its future proprietor.”

“Blood and thunder!” cried Cuchillo, started as if bitten by a snake – “that cannot be – it is not possible I could be fooled in that manner by a child!”

“That child is a giant beside you, master Cuchillo,” coldly replied Arechiza.

“It is impossible!” exclaimed the exasperated Cuchillo.

“Do you wish the proofs? – if you do you shall have them – but I may tell you they are of a nature to make you shudder from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet.”

“No matter; I should like to hear them,” said Cuchillo in a suppressed voice.

“I will not speak of your conscience – mark that well, Cuchillo! For I know that it never shudders – nor yet shall I speak of your timidity, which I observed last night while you were in the presence of the jaguars – ”

Don Estevan paused, to let his words have their full effect. It was his design to crush by his superiority the man whose fidelity he had a thousand reasons to suspect.

“Tiburcio,” continued he, “is of a race – or appears to be of a race – that unites intelligence with courage; and you are his mortal enemy. Do you begin to understand me?”

“No,” said Cuchillo.

“Well, you will presently, after a few simple questions which I intend to ask you. The first is: – In your expedition with Arellanos, had you not a horse that stumbled in the left leg?”

“Eh!” ejaculated Cuchillo, turning pale.

“A second question: – Were they really Indians who murdered your companion?”

“Perhaps it was me?” replied the outlaw, with a hideous smile.

“Third question: – Did you not receive, in a deadly struggle, a wound in the leg? and fourth: Did you not carry upon your shoulder the dead body of Arellanos?”

“I did – to preserve it from being mutilated by the Indians.”

“One more question: – Was it for this you flung the dead body into the neighbouring river – not quite dead, it may be?”

The beams of the moon, slanting through the leaves of the granadines, shone with a livid reflection on the face of the outlaw, who with haggard eyes listened, without comprehending whence they came, to the proofs of a murder which he believed forever buried in the desert.

Cuchillo, when imparting to Don Estevan the knowledge of his marvellous secret, had of course taken care not to give in detail the exact manner by which he had himself become master of it; he had merely stated such circumstances as were necessary to convince the Spaniard of the importance of the discovery. It would be impossible to paint the stupefied expression of his countenance, as he listened to these interrogatories. The very desert itself had spoken!

“Does Tiburcio know all this?” he asked, with an ill-dissembled anxiety.

“No; but he knows that the assassin of his father had a horse like yours; that he was wounded in the leg; that he flung the dead body in the water. Of one matter only is he still ignorant – the name of the murderer. But now let me say to you; if you give me the slightest cause to suspect your fidelity, I shall deliver the secret to this young man, who will crush you like a scorpion. Good blood never lies; so I repeat it, Cuchillo; no deception – no treason, or your life will answer for it!”

“Well, as regards Tiburcio,” muttered Cuchillo to himself, “if you only keep the secret till this time to-morrow night, you may then shout it in his ears: I shall have no fear of his hearing you.”

The outlaw was one of those characters who soon recover from a shock, similar to that he had just received. Almost on the instant he inquired, with impudent assurance:

“But your Excellency has not proved to me that this young fellow is in love with Doña Rosarita; and until I have proof of this I shall not doubt my penetration – ”

“Hush!” interrupted the Spaniard; “I fancy I hear voices!”

Both remained silent. In advancing across the garden, the two men had approached nearer to the walls of the building, and on that side of it which fronted the window belonging to the chamber of Rosarita. They were still at a considerable distance from the window itself; but so tranquil was the night, that sounds could be heard along way off. As they stood to listen, a confused murmur of voices reached their ears – as of two persons engaged in conversation – but the words could not be distinguished.

“It is the voice of Tiburcio and Rosarita!” muttered the outlaw.

“Did I not tell you? You may take that, I think, as an instalment of the proof you are desirous of having.”

A reflection, at this moment, came into the mind of the Spaniard, that struck upon his spirit like a thunderbolt. It was this: – “If the young girl, after all, is really in love with this fellow, what a dilemma! I may have to renounce all idea of the marriage, which I had designed as the corner-stone of my vast edifice!”

Don Estevan was the only one who at this time was aware of the real name and family of Tiburcio, and of course knew that he was not unworthy of the daughter of a Mexican haciendado. But it had never entered his mind that this young girl, who only regarded Tiburcio in the light of a poor gambusino, would think for a moment of reciprocating his passion. His ideas were suddenly altered, however, on hearing the voices of Tiburcio and Rosarita, alternating with each other, with no other witness to their conversation than the stars in the sky. It was evident, therefore, that Rosarita did not regard the young rustic with an unfavouring eye. An interview, such as this, could not be otherwise than a thing premeditated and prearranged.

The heart of the Spaniard swelled with rage at the thought. His ambition was suddenly alarmed: for this was an obstacle that had never occurred to him. His countenance exhibited a thoughtful and troubled expression. He found himself unexpectedly in the presence of one of those exigencies, which render diplomacy powerless, and absolve all reasons of state. He had behind him a man ready to destroy whatever victims he might point out; but he remembered that twenty years of expiation had failed to wash from his memory a murder of which he had been himself accused. Should he, then, after having passed the middle of his career, again embitter the remainder of his days by another deed of blood? On the other hand, so near the object of his ambition, was he to permit this barrier to stand in his way? or with a bold effort to rid himself of the obstacle?

Thus it is that the ambitious continually roll before them the rock of Sisyphus!

“Providence,” said he to himself – and as he pronounced the word a bitter smile played upon his lips – “Providence offers me an opportunity to restore to this young man his name and his fortune, and the honours which he has lost. Such a good action in my ripe age would perhaps compensate for the crime of my youth. But, no – no – I spurn the occasion – it is but a slight sacrifice to the cause which I serve.”

As he spoke, his face was turned towards Cuchillo, who was observing him attentively; but the shadow of the trees hindered the outlaw from noting the sombre expression of his countenance.

“The hour is come,” said he, speaking to Cuchillo in a low voice, “when our doubts are to be solved. But remember! your projects of vengeance must remain subordinate to my wishes – now follow me!”

Saying this, he walked silently towards the hacienda, followed by the assassin.

The storm which threatened Tiburcio promised soon to break over his head. Two dangerous enemies were approaching him; Cuchillo with wounded self-esteem, and purposes of vengeance that caused, him to grind his teeth as he thought of them; and Don Estevan, smarting at the discovery of such an obstacle to his ambition.

Tiburcio in going forth from his chamber, and traversing the path that conducted him to the appointed rendezvous, was under the belief he had not been observed: neither was he; but unfortunately chance had now betrayed him.

The night was not so dark as Don Estevan and Cuchillo would have wished; nevertheless, by crouching low, and keeping well in to the wall that enclosed the garden, they succeeded in reaching a little grove of orange and citron trees, the foliage of which was thick enough to shelter them from view. From this grove, thanks to the calmness of the night, they could catch every word that was said – for under the shadow of the trees they were able to approach very near to the speakers.

“Whatever you may hear,” whispered Don Estevan in the ear of the other, “remain motionless as I do.”

“I will,” simply answered Cuchillo.

The two now placed themselves in an attitude to see and hear. They were separated from the speakers by a slight barrier of leaves and branches, and by a distance not greater than an active man could pass over in two bounds. Little did the victims of their espionage suspect their proximity – little dreamt Tiburcio of the danger that was so near him.

Chapter Twenty Five

Love through the Window

For a time the listeners heard nothing beyond those commonplace speeches exchanged between lovers – when the young man, doubtful of his position, makes himself heard in reproaches, or arguments, which to him appear all-powerful, while the responses which he meets with show too plainly that he is either not loved at all, or that the advantages are on the side of the girl. But was this really the position of Tiburcio with Rosarita? It remains to be known.

According to the custom of country houses throughout Mexico, the window of Rosarita’s chamber was unglazed. Strong iron bars, forming what is called the reja, hindered an entrance from without; and behind this reja, lit up by the lamp in the chamber, the young girl was standing in an attitude of graceful ease. In the calm and perfumed night she appeared even more charming than when seen in the brilliant saloon – for it is behind the railing of these balconies that the women of Spanish race appear to the greatest advantage.

A reboso of silk was thrown over her head, falling over her shoulders in graceful undulations. The window running quite down to the level of the floor concealed nothing of her person; she was visible from the crown of her head to the satin slipper that covered her pretty little foot; and the outline of her figure formed in a graceful silhouette against the light burning within.

Tiburcio, his forehead resting against the bars, appeared to struggle with a painful conviction that was fast forcing itself upon him.

“Ah!” said he, “I have not forgotten, as you, Rosarita, the day when I first saw you in the forest. The twilight was so sombre I could scarce make out your form, which appeared like the graceful shadow of some siren of the woods. Your voice I could hear, and there was something in it that charmed my soul – something that I had never heard till that moment.”

“I have never forgotten the service you rendered us,” said the young girl; “but why recall those times? they are long past.”

“Long past! no, not to me, Rosarita – that scene appears to me as if it had happened yesterday. Yes,” continued the young man, in a tone of melancholy, “when the light of the camp-fire by little and little enabled me to observe the radiant beauty of your face, I can scarce describe the emotion which it gave me.”

Had Tiburcio, instead of looking to the ground, but raised his eyes at that moment, he might have noticed upon the countenance of Rosarita an expression of interest, while a slight blush reddened her cheeks. Perhaps her heart was scarce touched, but rarely does woman listen, without pleasure, to those impassioned tones that speak the praises of her beauty.

Tiburcio continued in a voice still softer and more marked by emotion: – “I have not forgotten the flowers of the llianas which I gathered for you, and that seemed to give forth a sweeter perfume when mingled with the tresses of your hair. Ah! it was a subtle poison that was entering into my heart, and which has resulted in filling it with an incurable passion. Ah! fool that I have been! Is it possible, Rosarita, that you have forgotten those sweet souvenirs upon which I have lived from that day up to the present hour?”

There are certain moments of indiscretion in the life of most women, of which they have a dislike to be reminded. Was it so with Rosarita? She was silent for a while, as if her rebellious memory could not recall the particulars mentioned by Tiburcio.

“No,” at length answered she, in a tone so low as not to betray a slight trembling of her voice, “I do not forget, but we were then only children – to-day – ”

“To-day,” interrupted Tiburcio in a tone of bitter reproach, “to-day that is all forgotten, since a Senator from Arispe has condescended to comprise you in his projects of ambition.”

The melodious voice of Rosarita was now heard in a tone of disdainful anger. Tiburcio had wounded her pride.

“Comprise me in his projects of ambition,” said she, her beautiful nostrils curving scornfully as she spoke, “and who has told you, señor, that it is not I who condescend?”

“This stranger, too,” continued Tiburcio, still preserving his reproachful manner, “this Don Estevan – whom I hate even worse than the Senator – has talked to you of the pleasures of Madrid – of the wonderful countries that lie beyond the sea – and you wish to see them with your own eyes!”

“Indeed I acknowledge,” answered Rosarita, “that in these deserts life appears to me dull enough. Something tells me that I was not made to die without taking part in those splendours of the world of which I have heard so much. What can you offer to me – to my father?”

“I understand now,” cried Tiburcio with despairing bitterness, “to be poor, an orphan, unhappy – these are not the titles to win the heart of a woman.”

“You are unjust, Tiburcio. It is almost always the very reverse that happens – for it is the instinct of a woman to prefer those who are as you say. But it is different with fathers, who, alas! rarely share this preference with their daughters.”

There was in these last words a sort of tacit avowal which Tiburcio evidently did not comprehend – for he continued his reproaches and bitter recriminations, causing the young girl many a sigh as she listened to them.

“Of course you love this Senator,” said he. “Do not talk, then, of being compelled!”

“Who talks of being compelled?” said Rosarita, hastily interrupting the young man. “I said nothing of compulsion, I only spoke of the desire which my father has already manifested; and against his will, the hopes you may have conceived would be nothing more than chimeras or idle dreams.”

“And this will of your father is to throw you into the arms of a ruined prodigal, who has no other aim than to build up the fortune he has squandered in dissipation, and satisfy his ambitious desires? Say, Rosarita, say! is this will in consonance with your own? Does your heart agree to it? If it is not, and there is the least compulsion upon you, how happy should I be to contest for you with this rival. Ah! you do not make answer – you love him, Rosarita? And I – Oh! why did they not leave me to die upon the road?”

At this moment a slight rustling was heard in the grove of oranges, where Don Estevan and Cuchillo were crouching in concealment.

“Hush!” said the young girl, “did you not hear a noise?”

Tiburcio turned himself quickly, his eye on fire, his heart beating joyfully with the hope of having some one upon which to vent the terrible anger that tortured it – but the rays of the moon shone only upon the silvery foliage – all was quiet around.

He then resumed his gloomy and pensive attitude. Sadness had again taken possession of his soul, through which the quick burst of anger had passed as lightning though a sombre sky.

“Very likely,” said he, with a melancholy smile, “it is the spirit of some poor lover who has died from despair.”

“Santisima Virgen!” exclaimed Rosarita, making the sign of the cross. “You make me afraid, Tiburcio. Do you believe that one could die of love?” she inquired in a tone of naïvété.

“It may be,” replied Tiburcio, with a sad smile still playing upon his lips. Then changing his tone, he continued, “Hear me, Rosarita! you are ambitious, you have said so – hear me then! Supposing I could give you all that has been promised you? hitherto I have preferred to plead the cause of Tiburcio poor and an orphan; I shall now advocate that of Tiburcio Arellanos on the eve of becoming rich and powerful; noble too I shall become – for I shall make myself an illustrious name and offer it to you.”

As he said these words the young man raised his eyes towards heaven: his countenance exhibited an altered expression, as if there was revived in his soul the pride of an ancient race.

For the first time since the commencement of the interview, Tiburcio was talking sensibly, and the daughter of Eve appeared to listen with more attention than what she had hitherto exhibited.

Meanwhile the two spies were also listening attentively from their hiding-place among the oranges. Not a word of what was said, not a gesture escaped them. The last speech of Tiburcio had caused them to exchange a rapid glance. The countenance of the outlaw betrayed an expression of rage mingled with shame. After the impudent manner in which he had boasted of his penetration, he felt confounded in the presence of Don Estevan, whose eyes were fixed upon him with a look of implacable raillery.

“We shall see now,” whispered the Spaniard, “whether this young fellow knows no more of the situation of the Golden Valley than he does of the Garden of Eden.”

Cuchillo quailed under this terrible irony, but made no reply.

As yet Don Estevan had learnt nothing new. The essential object with him was to discover whether Tiburcio’s passion was reciprocated: the rest was of little importance. In the behaviour of Rosarita there was certainly something that betrayed a tender compassion for the adopted son of Arellanos; but was this a sign of love? That was the question to which Don Estevan desired to have the answer.

Meanwhile, having excited the evil passions of the outlaw to the highest pitch, he judged it prudent to moderate them again; an explosion at that moment would not have been politic on his part. A murder committed before his face, even though he had not ordered it either by word or gesture, would at least exhibit a certain complicity with the assassin, and deprive him of that authority which he now exercised over Cuchillo.

“Not for your life!” said he, firmly grasping the arm of the outlaw, whose hand rested upon his knife. “Not for your soul’s safety! Remember! till I give the word, the life of this young man is sacred. Hush!” he continued, “listen!” and still holding the outlaw by the arm he turned his eyes upon Tiburcio, who had again commenced speaking.

“Why should I conceal it from you longer?” exclaimed the young man, in a tone to which the attentive attitude of Rosarita had lent animation. “Hear me, then! honours – riches – power I can lay at your feet, but you alone can enable me to effect this miracle.”

Rosarita fixed her eyes upon the speaker with an interrogatory expression.

“Perhaps I should have told you sooner,” continued Tiburcio, “that my adopted mother no longer lives – ”

“I know it,” interrupted the young girl, “you are alone in the world; I heard it this evening from my father.”

The voice of Rosarita, in pronouncing these words, was soft as the breeze that sighed through the groves of oranges; and her hand, falling as if by chance into that of Tiburcio, did not appear to shun the pressure given to it.

At the sight of this, the hand of Don Estevan gradually relaxed its hold upon the arm of Cuchillo.

“Yes,” continued Tiburcio, “my mother died in poverty, though she has left me a valuable inheritance, and at the same time a legacy of vengeance. True, it is a dangerous secret of which I am the heir, for it has already been death to those who possessed it; nevertheless it will furnish the means to raise myself to an opulence like your own. The vengeance which I have sworn to accomplish must be delayed, but it shall not be forgotten. I shall yet seek the murderer of Arellanos.”

At these words Cuchillo turned pale, impatiently grinding his teeth. His arm was no longer restrained, Don Estevan grasped it no more, for he saw that the hand of Rosarita was still pressed by that of Tiburcio.

“Here me further!” continued the young man. “About sixty leagues from here, in the heart of the Indian country, there is a placer of gold of incalculable richness; it was discovered by my adopted father. My mother on her death-bed gave me full directions to find the place; and all this gold may be mine, Rosarita, if you will only love me. Without your love I care nothing for it. What should I do with such riches?”

Tiburcio awaited the answer of Rosarita. That answer fell upon his heart like the tolling of a funeral knell.

“I hope, Tiburcio,” said she, with a significant smile, “that this is only a ruse on your part to put me to the proof – I hope so, because I do not wish to believe that you have acted so vile a part as to make yourself master of a secret that belongs to another.”

“The secret of another!” cried the young man in a voice hoarse with astonishment.

“Yes, a secret which belongs only to Don Estevan. I know it – ”

Tiburcio at once fell from the summit of his dreams. So his secret, too, was lost to him as well as her whom he loved, this secret upon which he had built his sweetest hopes; and to add to the bitterness of his disappointment, she too – for whose sake alone he had valued it – she to accuse him of treason!

“Ah!” cried he, “Don Estevan knows of the Golden Valley? perhaps then he can tell me who murdered my father! Oh! my God!” cried he, striking the ground with his heel, “perhaps it was himself!”

“Pray God rather to protect you, – you will need all his grace!” cried a rough voice, which caused Rosarita to utter a cry of terror as she saw a dark form – that of a man – rushing forward and flinging himself upon Tiburcio.

The young man, before he could place himself in an attitude of defence, received a severe wound, and losing his balance fell to the ground. The next moment his enemy was over him. For some minutes the two struggled together in silence – nothing was heard but their loud quick breathing. The knife of Cuchillo, already stained with blood, had escaped from his hand, and lay gleaming upon the ground without his being able to reach it.

“Now, villain, we are quits,” cried Tiburcio, who with an effort of supreme strength had got uppermost, and was kneeling upon the breast of the outlaw. “Villain!” repeated he, as he endeavoured to get hold of his poignard: “you shall die the death of an assassin.”

Places had suddenly changed – Tiburcio was now the aggressor, but at this moment a third personage appeared upon the scene. It was Don Estevan.

“Hold,” screamed Rosarita, “hold, for the love of the Holy Virgin! This young man is my father’s guest; his life is sacred under our roof.”

Don Estevan grasped the arm that was raised to strike Cuchillo, and as Tiburcio turned to see what thus interfered between him and his vengeance, the outlaw glided from under him.

Tiburcio now sprang up, rolled his serapé around his left arm, and holding it as a shield, stood with his body inclined backward, his left leg advanced, and his right hand firmly grasping his weapon, in the attitude of an ancient gladiator. He appeared for a moment as if choosing upon which of his antagonists he would first launch himself.